


A Light, However Dim

by Coyote Grins (Inksinger), Inksinger



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gift Fic, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 17:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17471528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inksinger/pseuds/Coyote%20Grins, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inksinger/pseuds/Inksinger
Summary: The Burning of Teldrassil takes its toll. Commissioned by tumblr user haleth for tumblr user starscourgeardyn, featuring the latter's OC Malrone Windleave!





	A Light, However Dim

It had been many weeks since Teldrassil, the World Tree, home of the night elven people, had been put to the torch by the Horde, and yet still there came near daily news of the far-reaching and largely devastating effects its death still had upon the world.

The survivors who could not escape to the Eastern Kingdoms had been forced to flee southward, hiding in small camps or family groups among the forest that had once been theirs to rule and wander. Having to avoid notice, death, or capture at the hands of the Horde forces stationed within Darkshore would be a trial in and of itself, but these ragged fugitives were forced to do so in the shadow of Teldrassil's charred remains - or perhaps the proximity of the immolated World Tree was what led so many of them to remain in newly hostile territory.

By all accounts, Teldrassil had been utterly destroyed, though somehow it remained standing amidst the polluted waters at its base. But the great ruin of it smoldered and gleamed a lurid, mournful red, as though its lifesblood was laid bare and seeping still from a myriad of massive lacerations in its once unbroken trunk and limbs. From the most graphic reports, it seemed to Medivh that Teldrassil could still be salvaged, if only the Horde occupation of Darkshore could be broken up soon enough. If the tree still stood, and its heartwood still burned, surely the was still the barest chance that it yet lived - that some small piece of it remained untouched by the flames.

But for the moment, saving the World Tree - if indeed it could be saved - was not among the priorities of the newly homeless kal'dorei. The Horde remained a problem to be dealt with, and in the meantime there were other, smaller acts of vengeance and mourning to be carried out. Sentinels and druids still sought entry into the ashen boughs, seeking any personal affects or heirlooms as might have survived the hellish inferno, to offer comfort to their grieving brethren, and to gather artifacts enough to create a proper memorial to the deceased. According to multiple reports, their work was often impeded; more than a few civilians followed after their battle-ready counterparts, driven by desperation and denial to seek loved ones who might have survived in spite of all the odds. Such frantic grief made for volatile tempers and impaired judgment, and so protecting and herding away the civilians who returned to Teldrassil in their despair became the priority of those best suited to the grim work of sifting through the ruins.

Night elves and worgen all across the globe had by now received word of the disaster, and like their less adventuresome kin many had begun the long journey back to Kalimdor, in hopes of either aiding the survivors scattered in camps throughout the continent or scavenging some small trinket or artifact from the charred remnants of their former home. Others journeyed to the Eastern Kingdoms, seeking refuge with friends and allies among the kingdoms of Stormwind and Ironforge.

Meanwhile, Tyrande Whisperwind had pulled her survivors out from under the Alliance high command, frustrated by King Anduin Wrynn's inability or unwillingness to over additional aid in the retaking of Darkshore - the reports were unclear as to which of the two it was, or if indeed both were present in equal measure.

Driven by her own fury and sorrow, Tyrande had gone alone and gathered multiple artifacts of power, and calling upon the goddess Elune in anger had assumed the darkest face of the Mother Moon, becoming a powerful entity straight from the legends of the ancient kal'dorei: The Night Warrior.

Inspired by the display of her newfound power against the Horde armies in Darkshore, several other night elves were reported to have followed in the footsteps of their High Priestess and undergone the dangerous ritual for themselves. Not all survived, and those who did still could not compare to Tyrande in terms of raw power, but the boost was significant nonetheless. Many found the potential for greater power against their enemies to be well worth the high likelihood of death should the ritual fail, or the magic bestowed upon them prove too much for their bodies to withstand.

Though Medivh had multiple sources from which he could receive news of the outside world, nearly all of the most intimate information regarding the night elves and their grieving was brought to him by way of written missives from his own lover, Malrone. By some grace, she had survived the Burning, and although in her letters he could sense a new, vicious edge about her that had not been present before, Medivh had been breathlessly grateful to have received her first bit of correspondence after the destruction of Teldrassil. The world of Azeroth had suffered a heavy blow, and doubtless more than just the night elves would ultimately suffer for it as time wore on, but at least Malrone was safe.

Even still… Medivh was troubled by a vague, brooding sense that something had been lost - something that struck him more profoundly than the World Tree or the innocents who had not escaped the inferno. Nothing in his correspondence seemed to provide an answer to his unspoken question; never, even in the letters Malrone sent to him, did Medivh ever come across any news that seemed to explain the odd, gnawing sensation in his chest.

He thought, perhaps, that what he felt was simply the burden of so much senseless damage having been done - and yet in his heart he knew it was something more than that.

In his darkest moments, he feared he knew the source of the emptiness at his breast - for Malrone had not spoken once of their son, not even in her first letter. She had not written of his death, true, and from the way the tone of her writing had gone from shell shocked horror to utter fury over the last several weeks, it was likely that she was simply so consumed by her own loss that she had omitted Watchstone's survival simply because it had not seemed worth noting that he was not among the unnumbered dead… but then, she would not necessarily have put news of their son's untimely death into a letter. It wasn't the sort of thing that ink and parchment were really suited for, least of all when the correspondence ran from one parent to the other.

If it _was_ Wardstone causing him such… unease…

Medivh shied away from the thought, though his rational mind knew he may well have to confront the possibility sooner rather than later. It was a source of pain he would rather not court, so long as he did not have to, and though it was a childish thing, perhaps, to run from shadows that may not even yet exist, he found it was an impulse he had little desire and less ability to fight against.

He was drawn from his musings by a sudden breach of the wards surrounding Karazhan - no, not a breach. The wards remained in place, unaltered and unbroken by his visitor. There were only a small handful in all of Azeroth who could pass freely through those wards without announcing themselves beforehand; all were close friends and deeply trusted, and Malrone was among them… though, of course, Malrone must still be in Darkshore, as she had been at the time she wrote her most recent letter. She had made no mention of coming to visit him, and there was so much yet to be done on that front that he doubted she would pull herself from the action any time soon. She seemed so much angrier now…

His curiosity stirred, Medivh rose from the desk where he had sat poring over correspondence, reports, and requests for aid or guidance from multiple sources all connected to Teldrassil and its scattered once-inhabitants. It would be nice to get away from the endless stream of suffering transferred into ink-stained parchment, and interact with someone one-on-one for a time. It might almost make him feel useful, if only for a moment.

Though not warded against further exploration from within, each room and level of Karazhan was possessed of sensory magicks, all of them designed to enable Medivh to track the whereabouts of his visitors at a distance. Such spellwork enabled him to put a swift end to an ill-thought-out attempt to meddle in and sabotage his affairs, though he used it far more commonly to quickly seek out and catch up to those guests he _intentionally_ entertained - as he did now.

Using the subtle magic laced throughout the tower, Medivh could tell his visitor was on their way up through the levels, and ported himself down to the third floor library to intercept them. He arrived before they did, though only by a few seconds - just long enough to have the door in his hand and pull it open at the sound of their--

“Hello, Medivh.”

The door hit his nose as it passed, not hard enough to hurt and only barely enough to register with him at all as the Guardian beheld the woman standing just outside.

“Malrone?”

His voice was soft, nearly a whisper, and in some detached corner of himself he was aware that he was staring openly.

The face and body were still quite the same - truly, at a passing, superficial glance, she seemed the same woman he had always known and loved. But he knew her far better than he knew the slopes and planes of her body, and what was different about her stood out to him as though they were brilliant dots of light, shining out against an inky black canvas.

Her eyes were the most immediate and most arresting difference: No longer did they gleam with a pale starlight hue. No longer did they seem to shine at all - for now they were the deep, blue-black of a moonless midnight sky, and rather than gleam it seemed instead that they leaked their shadows out across the pale violet skin of her cheeks. It was a chilling sight, one that sent a prickle down his spine and whispered, _this one - she is dangerous._

Other changes had occurred, visible only once he was able to tear his gaze away from hers. It wasn't only her eyes that had darkened; somehow, her entire form seemed to have grown darker in coloration, if only by a few faint shades. Another might not have noted the difference, might not have seen it had they not had the opportunity to study her as Medivh had.

Medivh did not have the luxury of such ignorance. He could see the changes in her as clearly as though a powerful light shone upon her…

_Powerful light._

“You didn't,” he heard himself say as he stepped back from the door - to allow Malrone inside, surely, and not due to any animal instinct to flee from her, from what the evidence suggested she most certainly _had_ done. “Malrone, you didn't…”

She followed him inside, and even her movements were changed now - graceful still, but edged with a quiet, predatory assuredness that she had not had before. No longer a cat prowling through empty shadows, then, but a nightsaber, stalking game in an endless hunt.

“It was necessary,” Malrone replied, holding his gaze until he was forced to look away. “I knew I would be strong enough to endure the blessing.”

 _Blessing._ Medivh felt a wave of outrage at the word and nearly lost the battle to contain it silently within himself. Becoming _this_ was a blessing? What had she been before, then - incomplete? Weak? Broken? Blessings were not often granted to those who could have done without them, after all…

“I didn't think to expect you,” he said instead, turning and picking up one of the heavy tomes that lay open on a nearby desk to mask whatever emotions might be playing across his features. “Going off your last letter I thought you would still be in Darkshore…”

“Medivh.” Though Malrone’s voice was unchanged by her recent transformation, albeit harder now than it had ever been before, the sound of it was heavy with the promise of grim news.

Medivh felt the blood freeze in his veins. It was very nearly a physical effort to force himself to turn to her again, the book still clutched, open and forgotten, between his hands.

Malrone didn't say anything more, but her hard expression seemed to be faltering, and the ferocious darkness of her eyes seemed to lessen ever so slightly as the silence stretched on - and then she shattered before him, a quiet breaking of shoulders hunching together and night-dark eyes squeezing shut against a sudden swell of tears. She made scarcely any sound beyond a sharp breath through her nose, and yet Medivh thought it was a more cacophonous display than if she had wailed outright.

A terrible stillness fell between them. Medivh could see the muscles of her jaw flexing as she gritted her teeth and struggled in silence to compose herself, and yet he felt frozen where he stood, unable to move across the handful of meters between them to take her in his arms no matter how intensely the better part of him wished he could.

He wasn't any better able to speak under the sudden and oppressive weight of the room's atmosphere, and so it was Malrone who finally broke the silence, looking up again and sounding as though she spoke through clenched teeth.

“Our son,” she said, and her voice was ragged with emotion, as though each word caused her physical pain in the speaking of it. “Wardstone… fell… with Teldrassil.”

His hands jerked of their own volition, the fingers seizing apart as though in response to sudden heat or cold. With the absence of his certain grip, the book dropped from his hands and landed with an almighty slam of leather against the solid wood of the tabletop, sending the yellowed pages fluttering as it went.

They had been apart too long this time. Far, far too long.

Medivh blinked and found himself halfway across the little space between them once again, reaching for Malrone as she folded her arms defensively across her stomach, as though that alone could hold her together. She did not shy away as he closed with her, though the skin of her ain quivered beneath his first unthinking touch.

He hesitated only for the briefest moment - scarcely the length of one rapid heartbeat - before drawing her carefully into his arms. Even accounting for the tension ringing through her back and shoulders, her body was harder now with muscle than he could recall it having been before, and she had not been soft or untrained even then. Even so, she folded readily against him, and soon wove her arms about him tightly as she buried her face against his shoulder.

A long, hard shudder rolled along the length of her spine - and then the proverbial floodgates shattered, and Malrone with them, and Medivh was left to weather her storm and his in accord. It was Medivh who collapsed first, lowering them both to their knees upon the floor, there to sit until the worst of their agony had finally subsided. Even then, the silence that fell over them remained uninterrupted.

There were no words, it seemed, sufficient for the loss they must now endure - and looking upon Malrone, and seeing her look upon him, was more comforting than any words they might attempt to exchange in this moment.

Once more, Medivh found himself arrested by his lover's newly transformed eyes. Now that he had drawn near, he could see that they were not the solid black they had initially appeared to be. No, there were lights deep within the shadows of them, albeit dim, inky, midnight blue lights. He thought perhaps these lights must be the markers of her pupils - they certainly seemed to follow him as he moved - but even up close, the rest of each eye was too dark even to see where the sclera ended and the pupil began.

There was poetry in that - subtext, perhaps, or metaphor. A light, however dim, shining still within the darkness…

Hands upon his face drew him away from his own distraction - callused hands laid against his cheek with a tenderness that spoke to a deeply rooted fear of loss, and Malrone's face and gaze softened to match the work of her hands as Medivh raised his own hands to cover hers.

There was a great deal that should be said - but the speaking of it would take more strength than he had in this moment to spare, and every drop of strength could be better put to survival. Malrone's own silence seemed to stand as an agreement, and they remained as they were for a long while before at last they picked each other up once more.


End file.
